


Beginnings, Endings

by MoonBeams



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Maybe a little heavier than light..., Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonBeams/pseuds/MoonBeams
Summary: The first time they sleep together in John's bed it feels like it should be a beginning, but it's really an ending.





	Beginnings, Endings

The first time they sleep together in John's bed it feels like it should be a beginning, but it's really an ending.

***

Sherlock starts it. He gets the distinct feeling that John has been holding back, waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. John is going to bed and it’s late and the living room is dimly lit and Sherlock feels like tonight is a night he could actually be coerced into sleeping. But thoughts of his own bed feel cold and empty in comparison to the evening he and John just spent and Sherlock thinks he knows how to fix that.

Until John turns around in the doorway he thought he had only said his name in his head. Apparently not. He has to push on with this then.

“I want to stay close,” he says, hoping that will explain it.

John beams at him and Sherlock knows he’s understood. Together they go up to John’s room. As John unselfconsciously changes into pyjamas, Sherlock, already in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, drops his dressing gown to the floor and gets into John’s bed. He moves to the side John obviously doesn’t use and lies down and waits.

John settles into bed and turns his back to Sherlock. Sherlock feels a twinge of disappointment. He thought sharing a bed would be, well...more, but he reasons with himself. Having another warm body in the same bed as you, hearing the other warm body breathing softly, surrounded by the smell of John...it could be worse.

Then John looks over his shoulder at him. "If we're going to share a bed, you might as well make it worthwhile."

Except he sounds more amused than annoyed and oh, _oh_ , Sherlock realises he's been waiting for him.

He shuffles closer and presses up behind John, chest glued to back, knees tucked into the gap behind knees, feet pressed tops to bottoms. He wraps an arm around John's middle. John instantly relaxes with a happy sigh and leans back a little against him. It's almost perfect.

Except.

After a few minutes Sherlock raises his concerns, never known to be one to willingly make himself uncomfortable.

"John. It's not that this isn't very nice, this is very nice, but it's not... I don't..."

John is not tense but warm and half sleepy and pliable under his arm and Sherlock wonders when he developed this infuriating inability to end his sentences.

"I don't feel like you're involved," he manages. He begins to explain himself more, certain that that won't suffice, but then John is turning over and placing a finger over his lips.

"Shh, you silly man," he says softly, too fondly for it to sound like that's what he really means.

He drapes an arm over Sherlock's waist, mirroring Sherlock’s hold on John, and his other hand comes up to fist in the soft fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt.

 _Yes_ , Sherlock thinks, as one of John's legs worms its way between his, more comfort than come-on. _This is much better_.

John blinks owlishly at him, smiling, and Sherlock only just realises that he is sporting a rather foolish, sappy smile. He doesn't feel the need to correct it.

"So you don't like spooning," John says, and a back burner of Sherlock's brain starts wondering who invented the term. "That's okay. We've got plenty more nights to figure this out, right?" He finishes by shifting closer, his head tucked under Sherlock's chin, and closing his eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock replies eventually. "Yes, we have."

But he thinks John's already asleep.

***

The next day, John dies.

Or, for three long, agonising hours, Sherlock believes he is dead.

Alleyway fights with case suspects are meant to be fun, adrenaline-pumping, nothing too serious. A few bruises at the worst.

It seems no one has told their latest suspect this though.

John gets ahead. Sherlock gets caught behind. It shouldn't happen like this. It is always Sherlock leading and John chasing after. It should be the other way around. It should be Sherlock who gets into a brawl with the surprisingly good fighter. It should be Sherlock who comes off worse in the fight, beyond bruises, more bloodied. It should be John, not Sherlock, who comes careening around the corner to see the other lying helpless on the floor, coughing up blood, as the suspect gets away.

But it isn't.

Sherlock rushes to John's side, already texting Lestrade to hurry and bring an ambulance with him, then throws his phone on the concrete, visually cataloguing John's wounds and wishing he hadn't when the list just gets longer, and longer, and longer. He pushes John's jacket out the way and presses his hands against a gash in John's side (he'd had a knife?).

John's wince brings him back and he glances up at John who looks far too pale, and his eyes are dimming and closing. He thinks he begs John to stay awake, to stay alive, to wait for the ambulance. John just about stays conscious, but he hasn't said anything, which Sherlock takes as a very bad sign. Somewhere, his brain is pulling up facts and figures and calculating long-term injury chances and survival rates, but he ignores it. Then his hands are being pushed aside by the paramedics he hadn't even heard arrive and he's told he's done all that he can for John as he watches them tend to John's injuries as best they can and then peel, _peel_ , him off the floor and onto a stretcher to carry him to the ambulance.

Throughout this there's a hand on his shoulder, probably Lestrade's, probably the only thing that stops him detaching from the earth and floating off. As they take John away from the alley the hand pushes him towards the ambulance and he stumbles, clumsily. The paramedics don't stop him getting in the back of the ambulance. He doesn't hear what they're saying.

When he goes to take John's hand they stop him. He gets angry, then he listens for long enough to realise they want him to wash the blood off his hands. He does, meticulously, John's partly dried, partly still warm blood sticking in the creases of his finger joints and under his nails and he thinks, hysterically, that it's just John's blood, and he can't infect John with his own blood.

With his now clean hands he takes the one of John's which lies closest to him. John is unconscious so he doesn't waste time with words. His fingers lightly ghost over the nicks on John's hand from the knife, the grazes from where he fell on the concrete and the cuts on his knuckles that make Sherlock feel oddly proud. Then too soon his moment of almost-peace is over as the ambulance arrives at the hospital and the paramedics hand John over to the doctors, who wheel him straight into surgery.

Lestrade is there again, a presence to weigh him down as he has to fill out paperwork and answer stupid questions and then is finally, finally, told where John is. They sit outside the room together, banned from entering, and it takes Sherlock the first half hour to realise he's crying silently, tears dribbling down his face and dropping off onto his coat. He doesn't even wonder when he got so slow. His brain is just John, John, John, on repeat, like a hope, like a prayer.

Sometime before the first hour is up he realises the last time John spoke to him was during the chase. Their last communication was when John had grinned at him and shouted, "I'll get him!" then sped off ahead. It had all gone wrong. John hadn't spoken to him since he was injured, he hadn't brokenly said it hurt. He had just winced and started dimming.

Sherlock thinks he cries for the full three hours but he can't be sure.

When the doors open and the doctor comes out to talk to them, Sherlock is in there before he can utter a word. The doctor looks scandalised and rushes after him to herd him out, but Lestrade flashes his police badge for Sherlock for the first time ever and procedure is probably broken but he's allowed to stay.

John is bandaged up and still looks pale against the white of the hospital sheets. His eyes are closed. The regular beep of the heart monitor fills the silence. Sherlock sits in the chair next to his bed and takes his hand again, the cuts now treated and his knuckles no longer bloody. A tiny part of him is aware of Lestrade standing to one side and watching him but Lestrade is far from the centre of his focus.

The doctor explains John’s injuries and how they've treated him and Sherlock vaguely listens, but doesn't really. Lestrade is there to listen to the important parts for him. All he wants to know is when John will wake up, but when he asks the doctor’s answer is maddeningly vague: he doesn't know how long it will take John’s body to recover from the surgery. Sherlock gets a faint urge to break everything in the room (except John of course, John needs to be fixed) but it soon passes.

Not long after the doctor leaves them, a person whom Sherlock is sure is in Mycroft’s employ appears at the door. He lets Lestrade deal with them and sections off a tiny part of his brain to hope that Mycroft doesn't turn up himself. He’s given himself up to illogical hopes and wishes and can’t find the space within to care about it.

He waits and waits and waits for John to wake up, and eventually he shifts, with a quiet murmur. Sherlock is instantly fully alert, his hand grabbing onto John’s tighter, leaning forwards in his chair. He says his name.

John’s eyes flicker open, then half close again at the brightness of the light. Now Sherlock feels like jumping up and leaping around, singing, ridiculously out of character, but jubilantly happy. Lestrade steps out to make a phone call. John says his name.

Sherlock explains to him, and blames himself, which John frowns at and Sherlock understands that’s his way of telling him off without having to use words. Already he feels less like he’s about to float away. Some balance has been restored.

Mycroft chooses to turn up just as John falls asleep again. Sherlock ignores him. John is still his centre of attention. Mycroft goes away after a bit and Sherlock stays until he falls asleep as well, still holding on to John’s hand.

***

Together they make it up the seventeen stairs to the flat, John stumbling with his healing injuries and Sherlock stumbling at having to help John. They stand at the top on the landing, not touching now, John favouring one leg over the other very slightly.

“I want to go to bed,” John says, despite the fact it’s only three in the afternoon.

“Okay,” Sherlock says, but inside he’s not thrilled about the prospect of having to help John up another set of stairs.

Sherlock didn’t think John could surprise him anymore, but he manages to yet again when, instead of heading for the stairs, he turns and limps his way to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock follows after him, a little bewildered, feeling like he’s missed something important.

In Sherlock’s room, John strips down to his underwear and carefully gets into bed, wincing slightly. Sherlock stands awkwardly in the doorway, feeling like a stranger in his own room, until John motions for him to join him.

Sherlock slowly takes off shoes, socks, suit jacket and shirt. His hands pause for a millisecond at his trousers and it’s probably barely even noticeable to anyone except him, but to him it feels like an age he’s stuck with his hands lingering indecisively. Then he quickly undoes his trousers and kicks them off, then joins John in his bed.

The better John got the more frustrated Sherlock got at his own inaction. The less he had to worry about John, the more his brain started clawing at itself for something to do, some puzzle to solve. Then Lestrade brought cold case files that had been bugging the Yard for years to the hospital and Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously at John, who just looked innocently happy. Sherlock is sure John had said something to Lestrade when he was out the room.

For a short minute, Sherlock feels the need to bound out of bed again and start solving things, but then John puts a hand on his waist and a hand on his shoulder and tugs at him to pull him closer. Sherlock shuffles over to him, leaving a small gap, conscious of John’s injuries.

“No,” John says, “I want you close.”

He pulls at Sherlock and Sherlock rolls a little closer. John draws Sherlock’s arm over his waist and rearranges them until he’s comfortable. Sherlock relaxes. His head has gone quiet again. It’s...nice. He thinks he could get used to this.

John sighs happily and suddenly Sherlock needs to fix the things that are wrong here. He needs to tell John. He needs to say.

“John,” he starts. Then he can’t continue.

John looks at him and waits patiently, realising this is important.

“I thought...” he begins.

John knows exactly what he thought, it’s obvious, but John is going to make him say it.

“I thought you were dead.”

“I know.” John reaches up and strokes his cheek gently and in a confusing wave of emotion Sherlock realises this might be a whole lot more than he thought before.

“John,” he repeats. He needs that anchor, he can feel himself about to float away again. John will know what to do. John is more versed in matters of the heart.

John leans in very slowly, his eyes flicking from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips and then back to his eyes, always checking. Sherlock knows exactly what’s about to happen, but at the same time, he doesn't have a clue.

Then John gently presses his lips to Sherlock’s and Sherlock’s eyes flutter shut and he just can’t help it. The kiss is nothing more than that but they stay that way for a few moments, pressed together, both here, both alive.

John pulls away and checks Sherlock’s face again. Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and sees John smiling at what he can see. He smiles back. Everything has changed but really, nothing has changed at all.

***

The first time they sleep together in John’s bed it feels like it should be a beginning, but it’s really an ending.

The first time they sleep together in Sherlock’s bed it feels like it should be a beginning, and that’s exactly what it is.

**Author's Note:**

> It took several years of saying I would but I finally posted a fic! (I wrote this one at the end of 2012 lol)
> 
> If you enjoyed it let me know :)
> 
> ALSO I'm looking for a beta to help me tear to shreds a 55k Sherlock fic. If you're interested please send me a message/leave a comment/hit me up on tumblr:
> 
> hannahrrrr.tumblr.com


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